Ye Were Strangers in the Land of Egypt

This evening, I received word that my godmother passed away. Her name was Judy Carlson, and she was a friend to the poor and the dispossessed. While the memories are still fresh and vital in my mind, I want to tell you a bit about Judy, her husband John, and the ethical and spiritual framework they constructed for me without my even realizing it.

Judy and John, both devoted Christians, decided in their retirement that they would spend the rest of their lives serving the poor in downtown Omaha. Their commitment was fierce: they sold their home in West Omaha, and bought a house just south of 25th and Leavenworth Streets, in an area that was, at the time, overrun by crack, meth, and hardship.

My mother and I would visit John and Judy’s home frequently, and as a child growing up in a comfortable, upper-middle-class neighborhood, it was astonishing to see two people, as a matter of choice, who had moved into a struggling area with the aim of making it, and its people, better. Drunks would wander up the steps, struggling to stay upright, and would be greeted with hugs and warmth, and offered a comfortable chair and a cup of coffee inside. There were no castes, no divisions, no better-than, less-than. When I would ask my mother why John and Judy lived where they lived, she would simply respond, “That’s what Jesus would do.”

A little while later, the couple assembled enough funding to purchase another house, on 22nd and Howard. The house would serve as a home for alcoholics/addicts in recovery, and was called, “Place Called Home.” It was a beautiful old house, full of old furniture, with a spunky black cat named Midnight. My father lived there for several months while battling his alcohol addiction, and as a trained carpenter, made several improvements to the physical plant, including remodeling the garage to serve as additional bedrooms. The men lived together, ate together, prayed together. I spent many afternoons there playing Scrabble with Judy and the guys, listening to Judy play the piano in the living room, and playing in the yard with my brother. I met the first gay person I was ever aware of meeting there. Nobody batted an eyelash. I was introduced to Bruce Springsteen, Lakota culture, the prison system, and the finer points of competing brands of cigarettes. In short, the place was a school of humanity.

As I moved into my teenage years, it became apparent to me that many of my classmates and friends had not had similar experiences in their childhoods. I was comfortable around people that they were not comfortable around. I had developed a sense of righteous compassion, and I wasn’t even sure where it had come from. Now, of course, I know exactly where it came from. John and Judy had shown me the way.

All of this brings me, in a roundabout sort of way, to the present refugee crisis gripping the Middle East and the West, as we struggle to decide what to do with millions of Syrians who have fled, and are continuing to flee, violence and oppression. After the recent terrorist attacks in Paris, some are suggesting, nay insisting, that we cannot allow any more Syrian refugees into the United States, fearing that such people will bring in disguised networks of terror. Despite the images and testimonies brought to us daily by the news media of the suffering and heroism of men, women and children giving everything to chance by leaving their homes for a new life, it is suggested that we just cannot “risk it.” We are encouraged to avert our eyes in our comfortable clothes, in our comfortable homes, with our comfortable families, and comfortable meals. We are encouraged to facilitate suffering because of our fears.

I cannot accept this. I cannot accept this, because my upbringing, my faith, and my experience have taught me otherwise. They have taught me that the walls that we put up between ourselves are evil constructs, made out of the vain idea that we are in a position to decide who is worthy of our attention, and who is not. To bar those most in need of our mercy from entry into our comfortable lives is callous, immoral, and sinful. Scripture is vague about many, many things, but one thing it is not vague about is welcoming the stranger. For followers of Jesus, this is not optional. Judy and John taught me this, of course, without even saying a word.

It’s a funny thing to realize all of a sudden why one has such clarity about an issue. Judy showed me the way before I even knew what was happening. May she rest in peace, and may we learn to invite those whom we fear most into our lives, to experience the life-changing power of love and redemption, before it’s too late.